


Nailmaster's Folly

by Silverskye13



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: A stab at backstory for these guys, Anger, Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Colosseum of Fools, Family Issues, Kinda, and how they maybe possibly get over it, and why their grudge happened, its more like brotherly yelling until eventually we get past our mutual trauma grudge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-07-29 03:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20075608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverskye13/pseuds/Silverskye13
Summary: Oro has spent the last several years in isolation at the edge of the world, training in an attempt to prove himself after his estrangement from his brothers. And what better way to prove himself than this new rumor he's heard - the Colosseum is looking for a new Champion, and strong knights from all over the corpse of Hallownest are gathering to test their might. It should have been a simple thing, really. All Oro would have to do is enter the Colosseum, hack his way to the end of the tournament, and finally get the one thing he's always been chasing after.But there is more than one Nailmaster entered into this tournament, and now Oro must come face to face with the reason he left all those years ago, under the King Fool's fell gaze.





	1. Chapter 1

It had started out so simple. Of course it had.  _ Everything always  _ started out simple, only to complicate itself  _ just before  _ he could back out of it again. Isn’t that why he’d made his home, his study, his  _ life  _ at the edge of the world? At the  _ least complicated place  _ in Hallownest? 

Err. No, of course not. That might imply he was running away from his problems when he made his home at the end of everything. And if there was one thing Oro never,  _ never  _ did, it was run from his problems. He didn’t run from  _ anything _ . Never. Not when he’d run into half a dozen Hive Guardians that time his practicing took him through the hive’s eastern wall. Not when he’d got caught in an Aspid swarm that time he’d accidentally fallen into one of their nests while looking for food. And  _ certainly  _ not when he was cornered by a triad of Great Hoppers outside his home when he made too much noise near the canyon. So certainly, after the years he’d lived and the horrors he’d seen and the honor he’d carved for himself, he, Oro the Nailmaster, wouldn’t be running now.

………. Though presently, the temptation made itself known.

Nothing was ever simple, no matter how simply it started.

And it  _ had been  _ a simple beginning.

Oro had been training, like he did every day, practicing his nail arts on the dummy he’d set up outside his home. Stab, slash, backstroke, parry. The names, the stances, the repetition was so ingrained inside him they might as well have been written on the spider-silk thread of his soul. He’d been at it all morning, and he’d be at it until the day was done - until a commotion near his home had drawn his attention. At first, he’d groused and grumbled that whatever it was, it didn’t deserve his attention. But the Nail Sage had hammered honor and chivalry into his craft, and his obligation drew him to the noise like so many lumaflies to a honey-soaked lantern.

It had been a group of bugs floundering at the legs of a Great Hopper as it crunched and stomped its way through them. By the time Oro swooped in to their rescue, half the group had been crushed to nothing more than broken shell and twitching limbs. While they recovered their strength by his bench, they recounted to him their business. Lost travelers they were, fighters, warriors. The best of the best they claimed, though after such a meager performance Oro was skeptical.

“We’ve come for the Colosseum of Fools. Have you heard of it?”

Of course he had.  _ Everyone  _ had. And even if Oro  _ hadn’t _ , he was hard pressed to gather himself breakfast every day without tripping over the unfortunate remnants of half the fighters that walked into the place. Broken shells and missing limbs were  _ to die for _ souvenirs it seemed, and the loser takes all.

“Someone’s struck down God Tamer,” they reported with bloodthirsty glee, “The Colosseum is looking for a new Champion, and all of us are going for the crown.”

“You should try it,” someone mentioned off-handedly, “You can handle a nail and a Great Hopper, and I’m sure you could handle us.”

Oro didn’t even have to wonder. He was just as sure he could. This ragtag group of fragile bugs, driven on greed and glory? They held their nails with the clumsiness that came from foolhardy youth born in families where they strutted uncontested. Should any one of them square off against him, Wyrm, should  _ all  _ of them square off against him, he could lay them low. But he didn’t say as much. He wasn’t one for brazenness, nor really one for any sort of campfire small talk. Oro simply shrugged and let them speculate and let the seeds of their words plant themselves in the back of his mind. After they’d left - after he’d made sure they knew they weren’t welcome - the idea bloomed into something disastrous. Stupid. 

In short, they turned into a problem.

A problem that started with the perilous thought -  _ I could best all those warriors. They knew it themselves.  _ Then that thought crawled a little further.  _ I’m sure there are more, stronger, up there in the Colosseum.  _ A little further.  _ Could I prove myself strong, if I bested them all? _

Oh his weakness, his chagrin. At first, he’d refused to entertain the idea. It was a Colosseum of  _ Fools  _ and surely just  _ thinking  _ of joining the fray of such a place made him the most foolish of them all. What was to be gained anyway, slashing off the limbs of a handful of cocky warriors too prideful to realize they were wasting their lives on fruitless gain?  _ Oh  _ he’d paced back and forth thinking over it. His logic and his ambition bickered themselves senseless in his chest and his meditations left a sour taste in his mouth.

Fine.  _ Fine!  _ He’d thought.  _ I’ll go look. I’ll go watch a bunch of warriors hack each other to pieces, and then I’ll see some sense and some rest _ .

Oro had huffed and grumbled the entire, jagged climb to the summit of Kingdom’s Edge, casting wary glances in the direction of every corpse he saw as he went. Broken shields, broken weapons, broken armor, broken shells. All coated with the lifeblood of a thousand idiots eager to taste bitter steel. He wasn’t one of them! No, certainly not. His nail he hefted over his shoulder for protection. His breastplate so he would look presentable in a crowd of fools. His greaves and gauntlets a glimmering aesthetic. No one would bother him, and so he could make his climb up and down again. It would be simple. It would be safe. 

So sure was he of his own disdainful illusion, that he hardly knew he was lying to himself until he was pulling out his geo to pay the dues for admission. Oro the Nailmaster was one more fool in line for the Colosseum's hungry jaws, sucked into that great big maw as though the thing were alive to breathe him in. No matter, no matter! He would pick his way through a couple of rounds of fighting - really, he needed the practice. He’d been drilling on Hoppers and dummies for so long. Surely the glimmering ring of steel on steel would be a pleasant change from hardened chitin and stuffed straw. And what better way to make sure he knew his arts as well as he wished to?

Oro signed his name with a list of names, and he set his nail on his shoulder, and he descended into the pit of fools to wait for his chance in the arena. It was simply a change of pace. Simply a chance to practice. Simply…  _ simple _ . Simple as the glassy surface of blue lake.

And then just as simply, he was reminded that nothing was ever  _ simple _ .

Oro the Nailmaster descended the final step, and his eyes had barely a moment to parse the crowd of waiting warriors before they settled on a familiar form. Red armor glinting. Great nail tended with care on his lap. Cape splayed long across the grime-soaked floor. His mask was downturned, but even from here Oro could see the three alabaster tips of it curving gentle yet wicked, the sharp face of a fighting bug. He could be looking into a mirror or looking at himself. That would make things so much _simpler_.

The  _ reality  _ was, of course, that Oro the Nailmaster was staring at a bug he’d never expected to see so far out in the wastes of the world ever, over the course of his life. In fact, he was staring at a bug Oro the Nailmaster had already decided he would never see again, unless he walked to the other side of the world entirely and knocked on his door  _ himself _ .

Oro was looking at his brother, Mato.

And presently, as though the weight of Oro’s stare alone had grabbed the bug’s attention, Mato was looking at him. 

Great Hoppers. Primal Aspids. Hive Guardians. A Colosseum of Fools. None of these things had ever inspired in Oro the idea of turning around and fleeing where he stood. But one look at Mato from across the room, and suddenly Oro thought the wisest decision he could possibly make would be to turn around and walk right back out the direction he’d come.

But Oro didn’t run from his problems. And Mato, though he had never visited,  _ did in fact  _ know where he lived. So even if he  _ did  _ decide to run, he wouldn’t have any productive place to go. So instead, Oro squared his shoulders, and he hefted his nail, and he elbowed his way through a crowd of warriors until he stood tall before where his brother sat. And he said the bravest, and brashest, and most foolish thing he’d ever said in his life.

“Hello brother,” he said, “Good to see you haven’t gotten any uglier while I was gone.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have an awkward conversation after years of silence

Mato rose slowly to his feet, and as he rose his nail rose with him. Oro could hear the piercing screech of metal on the cobbled floor as the tip of it trailed across the ground. Though the two of them were the same height, it seemed to Oro that for a moment Mato might be towering over from him, and the air around them - once a cacophony of braggartly voices all chattering for each other’s attention - went deathly still from the miasma of tension the two of them emanated. One breath, two, where Oro and Mato were mask to mask and eye to eye, with nails held tight in fisted hands and towering shoulders squared and stances wide. A bug close by them took a wary step back, cautious of the wide swings their great nails must be capable of.

Mato’s hand lurched forward and with a fierce jab Oro met it. Their gauntlets hit with a ringling  _ clash _ of metal - a deeper, heartier ring than ever was the sound of nail against nail - and with it rang their voices in a bellowing, brotherly war cry. And then Mato was laughing, and in spite of himself, Oro felt his own laughter catch itself in his chest, reluctant to be stamped from his normally cold demeanor. Giddy relief and nervous dread raced themselves in his guts, even as his brother  _ beamed  _ at him, their forearms clasped against each other in a salute of camaraderie. 

“Oro! What are  _ you  _ doing  _ here?” _

“I could ask you the same thing!” he crowed, finally allowing a bit of his emotion to writhe itself free of him in a low chuckle, “This is  _ my side  _ of Hollownest.”

“Yes well, I was never good at giving you your space,” Mato returned good-naturedly, though Oro felt a prickle of something like defensiveness run up his shell, “Still, I hadn’t expected - that is, I didn’t  _ think  _ -”

“Well if you’re not thinking, then why are you  _ doing? _ ” Oro asked abruptly, the sharpness in his voice mimicking the tone he’d heard a thousand times over from the Nail Sage himself while they were training. It ripped another bellow of laughter from Mato, a warmth-filled sound that Oro had never even realized he’d missed. It had been…  _ a long tim _ e… since he’d spoken with his brothers.

“Is Sheo here?” 

“While it seems  _ anything  _ is still possible,” Mato chuckled, his enthusiasm waning as his gaze became distracted, “ _ That,  _ I think, there’s no chance of.”

Oro looked around them, suddenly self-conscious of his place among so many coarse and inelegant fighters. As a Nailmaster he had come to believe he was a cut above most, entitled to some grace and refinement from his study. And here he sat ready to challenge guards and mercenaries, the collective ambitious and potentially unskilled. He wondered a bit distantly if the Nail Sage might find such a crowd of opponents beneath him, and then again wondered if that even mattered. The Sage's laws only dictated he fight with dignity and respect - they never demanded the same of those he fought with. And besides, Mato was here. With how rigidly respectful he was of the Nail Sage's teachings, if there  _ was  _ some disparity, he was sure his brother wouldn't be here - unless Mato had learned to loosen up over the last decade or so, which seemed unlikely.

Sheo though...

“Yes…" Oro agreed finally, "I’m sure Sheo wouldn’t be caught dead in The Colosseum of Fools.”

The original rush of enthusiasm fading, Oro was already beginning to find himself exhausted - a problem that had never left him no matter how much time had passed. Small talk was tiring. Talking  _ in general _ was tiring. It involved tact and decorum and subtle intricacies that he was a bit too rough to understand half the time and a bit too blunt to bother with every other time - all of which was amplified when he spoke to  _ Mato  _ in particular. Mato was, even at his best, a valley of snares and pitfalls waiting to be stomped on, and Oro always had the unfortunate knack for stomping headfirst into the worst of them.

It was one of many, _many _reasons they had never gotten along, even as kids.

“So how about you?” Mato continued, his voice still pleasant, “What brought you to the Colosseum?”

“Ah well, you know, just uh-”  _ Still trying to prove I’m good enough to call myself a Nailmaster _ , “Getting bored of practicing nail techniques on beasts and targets. It’ll be a nice change of pace, fighting against other nail wielders.”

Mato nodded exaggeratedly, as though that was how he was expected to respond instead of him  _ actually agreeing  _ with what Oro said. That was another thing about Mato that Oro had always… disliked. He was filled with painfully idealistic impressions of what was expected of him. He acted much more like a child  _ pretending  _ to be a Nailmaster than a bug who had actually studied and trained for years to become one. 

“Yes, I always found training alone to be difficult,” Mato hummed wisely, as though he were about to recite some sage advice that had been passed down to him from Wyrm knows where, “Always relying on yourself to correct your own form. Ever a slave to your own judgement and patience. It can be tedious, and  _ so easy  _ to teach yourself bad techniques,” he paused and blinked, and then blustered suddenly, “I mean -! Speaking  _ personally _ . I don’t think  _ you -! _ You know, you were always good at memorizing forms and stances. And the amount of self-discipline you possess is-”

“It’s  _ fine _ , Mato. I don’t think you’re accusing me of bad form,” Oro grumbled, though the paranoia of the thought was already burying itself somewhere in the back of his mind where he knew it would bite him later, “Solitude is difficult for anyone honing a craft, but I’m sure we both did just fine.”

A silence passed in between them, and although tense with awkwardness, Oro found it welcome. He could gather his thoughts in it, figure out how best to navigate his brother’s company further - or perhaps navigate an excuse to _leave_. 

“Though… on the topic of solitude, and fighting alone,” Mato said tentatively, his voice meandering in the lilting way of someone pretending what they were about to say hadn’t been on their mind the entire for the conversation, “I’ve heard the Colosseum takes partners and fighting groups.”

_ Oh Wyrm. _

“They’re taking names until the first match starts,” Mato continued, “I’m sure there’s plenty of time - we could sign on together?”

Something in Mato’s tone brightened pathetically in a way that made Oro cringe somewhere deep inside his shell, “Wouldn’t that be a sight for the ages? Nailmaster Brothers Oro and Mato! Fighting together after all these years.”

Mato chuckled, “We’d be a bit rusty, I'm sure but… it could be fun.”

“I’m sure it would be,” Oro conjured up a brave amount of pleasantness into his voice, “But… don’t you think it might be a little much?”

“... a little much?”

“I mean, it’s not like we’ll be fighting any Nailmasters here,” Oro continued, picking his words as cautiously as he might select a replacement nail, “Both of us together would balder our way right through the competition. _I _came here for a challenge. I’m sure you did as well.”

“Right, right. No, that makes perfect sense,” Mato responded with wilting enthusiasm, “Well... I suppose I’ll just wish you luck then?”

“And I wish you the same,” Oro said, valiantly ignoring Mato’s disappointment, “Don’t let some fool put a crack in your shell.”

Mato chuckled half-heartedly, and Oro got the distinct feeling that in spite of all his careful tip-toeing, he’d managed to go careening right into the spiked pitfalls of Mato’s company regardless. 

He had a hard time feeling truly bad about it though. It was inevitable that he’d say something wrong sooner or later. It had been a  _ long time  _ since they’d spoken, even longer since they spoke in any way that could be called civil. In fact, he’d been under the impression when they’d last parted that Mato never wanted to see him again. The break from the animosity now was… _nice_… but it _must_ still exist between them. Nothing about the feud had been resolved in the past years. He knew it had to be there, buried somewhere beneath Mato’s eagerness for companionship.

At any rate, it wouldn’t do to go looking for it. Not right now, anyway. He had more important things to prepare for right now.

“Looks like there’s a hot spring here,” Oro said off-handedly, “It was a long climb up the cliffs-”

“By all means,” Mato said, “Recover your strength. If you need me I’ll be tending to my nail.”

As Oro ambled off, Mato returned to his previous sitting, and with a cloth pulled from his pack he began caring for the weapon he would soon be using. It was… likely just his imagination, some trick of the dim lighting here in the pit below the Colosseum, but Mato seemed… well he seemed something beyond disappointed. Sorrowful almost. There was a droop to his shoulders that could have read like weariness if it weren’t for the conversation before. An exhaustion of the soul almost, like being resigned to one’s fate.

Oro growled a heavy sigh under his breath as he dipped his feet in the spring. No, he wasn’t going to let this get under his shell. He’d come here for a  _ reason _ , and Mato’s sentimentality changed nothing about that. He refused to be distracted, and he refused to be worried. And he refused so  _ adamantly _ all these things, that he didn’t realize the rounds had started until he looked up to see that Mato, along with several other of the waiting warriors, were gone. He might be worried about him, if he didn’t resent his brother’s skill with the nail so much. Oro sunk a bit lower into the hot spring as if the warmth alone could help him forget their conversation.

Mato could handle most things thrown at him. 

Oro should focus on himself.

It wouldn’t do to become another victim of the arena, after all. Not with his brother watching. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize until I was way into writing this that I made Oro a pretty rough main character, and honestly I kinda like that. Lol I've never done that before. Normally I go for more likeable characters as the main POV.  
We'll see how it goes!


	3. Attrition I

_ “Please, calm yourself. We can work this out.” _

_ "There is  _ nothing  _ we can do to fix this." _

_ "Of course there is. There always is. You are brothers for gods' sakes. You'll always have each other. You have nothing else." _

_ "Even the hardest nails break, Master. Families are no different." _

_ Silence. _

_ A silence unlike any other.  _

_ It was a telling sort of silence, the kind that spoke volumes in the air it filled. The kind of silence that proved, for the first time in his entire life, he had rendered the Nail Sage speechless. Many times he'd heard the Sage go quiet. In thought. In preparation. In meditation. But never speechless. He had never been witty enough, funny enough, wise enough, to catch the Sage off-guard. He had never once in his life been able to disarm a conversation with the wizened old bug. _

_ But just now he had. _

_ The fount of wisdom, of rebuttal, of returns had run dry. The Nail Sage had nothing to say. No comfort. No solutions. Not even anger.  _

_ Nothing.  _

_ It was the first silence that ever truly betrayed him.  _

_ Silence was normally his. It was his safe place, his solace. Silence was his friend, companion and confidante. It was the one thing he always had if nothing else. But in this one moment, it was the most damning company he had ever endured.  _

_ No, there was no rectifying this. Not even the Nail Sage could see a solution. And if the Nail Sage himself couldn't see a way to fix this broken nail, no one could. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you title an intermission chapter when you don't want to call it an intermission chapter ?
> 
> Apparently you title it whatever this is.


	4. Too Many Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we fight round one of the Colosseum

“Nailmaster Oro!” 

Oro blinked out of the stupor the hot springs had put him in. Even with just his feet in the water, it had submerged his thoughts in the placid blankness of half-sleep. Unlike most naps though, which left him with odd tastes in his mouth and a clouded-over feeling of fatigue for hours after, stepping away from this water left him feeling invigorated and warm all the way down to the center of his shell. When he hefted his nail onto his shoulder it felt lighter than it had before, and his thoughts and reactions felt focused and sharp.

Oro strode over to the small bug who had called his name, an announcer of sorts with a long checklist of names coiled in its claws. It confirmed Oro was next up for the Colosseum and escorted him above where the gates were still locked and shut. The sounds of battle still raged and stealing quick glances through the gates occasionally, Oro could make out a handful of bugs squaring off against a wave of aspids just released from their cages.

“So,” the Announcer said, adjusting a pair of spectacles that rested over its mask, “The first round is against a wave of various beasts. Helps weed out the competition a bit, you see, so we don’t have a massive bracket two hundred names long. So no complaining! This is much quicker and more efficient than the alternative I assure you!”

Oro hadn’t been of the mind to argue over it. Once upon a time he’d fought in tournament-style battles before. He knew how the first few rounds normally went. Apparently someone - or many someones - had given this poor bug a hard time about it already, though.

“If you’re anything like the other one,” it continued, looking Oro up and down and likely comparing him to Mato in its head, “This will be no problem for you.”

Oro felt that familiar defensiveness prickle up his shell and he growled with more severity than he’d intended, “It  _ won’t be _ .”

“If you put on a good performance,” the bug said, ignoring Oro’s response, “The crowd may feel like throwing you some geo. You’re allowed to take whatever they give you - unless it’s food. I mean, you’re allowed to take food if they throw it at you I suppose, but it’s generally spoiled so I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Any other sage advice, while we’re here?” Oro asked disdainfully, watching as the last bug standing in the arena was mercilessly swarmed by the remaining aspids. The crowd went wild, disgustingly so. The stomping of their feet thrummed in his chest, and their cheers  _ howled  _ like the winds off the cliffs. Oro had never seen so much bloodlust gathered in a single building in his entire life. The bugs who watched the Colosseum were just as barbarous as the bugs ready to risk their lives here. Perhaps even more so, to take so much joy in the suffering and death of fellow bugs.

“My  _ best  _ advice?” the Announcer flashed him a grin filled with a vicious amount of teeth for one so small, its unconcerned facade glinting malicious in the dim light, “Don’t die.”

The gate rumbled and opened with a screech. Wordlessly Oro strode into the arena, the steps of his feet pacing themselves to the pounding of the drums. With every step forward he felt a daring sort of ambition flaring up in his chest, and it took every bit of his restraint not to go barreling into the Colosseum with a rallying war cry. 

The crowd was chanting and cheering as he stepped into the light of the arena. He crunched past broken shells and discarded armor, turning his face away from the slick of blood and acids across the ground and instead up towards the roaring crowd. He determined to himself _now, _as he paced across the arena, that he was going to make himself different from Mato. He wanted the crowd to be able to tell him apart. He wanted to be able to _outshine _whatever honorable schtick Mato was sure to front forward. He didn’t know _how _exactly, but he was going to. 

Hm. Well. He could be a little showy anyway, he thought. 

Once in the center of the arena, Oro took his great nail in his hand and raised it in the air, presenting it in a silent challenge to the waiting crowd. And the crowd _roared _back at him, a great riveting cheer that vibrated through his whole body and ripped a grin across his face. The gates he’d just walked through slammed shut and in the same shriek of movement, metal cages sprung into the arena to release their inhabitants.

The fight began.

Oro could hardly call it a challenge. In fact, he’d seen more trouble on a mid-morning stroll on more than one occasion. Aspids and spike-covered balders barreled through the arena, bothering him only with how crowded they were in the confined space. His nail sung through them, sprays of infection painting the ground in shadows of the great arcs he carved with his nail. He caught a spray of acid once, the stinging smell of it bothering him more than the splatter on his arm. It burned a bit, but it didn’t faze him. Such petty wounds would close after a short soak in the springs below, and a rest.

The creatures that gave him the most trouble during the fight were the small host of gruzzers released near the end of the battle amidst a few captured husks from the city. He hadn’t met gruzzers in a long time, but he remembered them _much differently _than the creatures bumbling through the air above him now. Last Oro had been near the crossroads, gruzzers were harmless little creatures cut down in a single nail strike - though hardly worth the effort to do so. These creatures they released however, though bearing the gruzzers’ likeness, dripped toxins from behind their masks and out the pores of their bodies. It was a treacherous dance keeping out of their reach while still managing to sting them with his own nail, all while the floor of the arena slicked itself over. Twice Oro slipped in the ichor and nearly lost his footing, only to catch himself with hand and nail and singe his palms on the infection-soaked ground. And then he would be sprinting off again just in time to dodge the reaching claws of the handful of husks meandering about the Colosseum floor.

It took time, patience, but it was a simple task for Oro to outmaneuver the gruzzers and cut them down - and then simpler still the task of cleaving apart the wandering husks. It was pathetic almost, setting his nail against the mindless, mostly harmless creatures. But for the sake of the Colosseum, he did. The crunch of his nail through chitin was almost cathartic by the time he was done. Down to one final husk left, Oro set his nail high above his shoulder and dashed forward. He wanted to finish the fight with something _impressive_, so why not then use his signature move?

Though he figured he hardly  _ needed  _ to. Even without the final flourish the crowd was a roaring, triumphant snarl. The noise  _ sang  _ through his shell like adrenaline and soul. Like they were themselves one massive creature roaring over his shoulder, daring him onward. His dash brought him towards the final wandering husk like a stroke of lightning, and the aimless creature had enough time to notice him and turn towards his nail before the metal was slamming through its mask.

The sound of a nail cleaving through a mask was a distinct noise, subtly yet starkly different than the sound of breaking chitin and shell. 

It was a harsher sound, a high-pitched  _ snap _ . A sound that stuck itself somewhere between breaking bones and shattering glass, a sound you could  _ feel _ like tin in your ears . It was a noise that set Oro’s teeth on edge, a sound that curdled his insides with a pressure like gathering vomit, a sound that made his eyes squint painfully and tightened his grip on his nail. 

The husk fell away, and from deep  _ deep  _ down in the center of his core Oro shivered. 

He dropped his gaze to the floor, to the mask, split cleanly in half and spattered with the blood of its owner. The two halves rocked slightly, still settling against the floor. His stroke had cut diagonally across the surface, slicing one of the eye sockets in two. There was a buzzing noise in the back of Oro’s head, growing more intense as the movement of the mask fragments against the ground settled. A droplet of blood streaked itself in a line across the white surface, pooling near the curve of the broken eye.

Oro blinked.

The noises of the Colosseum came rushing back to him like a wave, and Oro cast his gaze up to the crowd. Many of the bugs had surged to their feet and were jumping and cheering, and a showering of geo  _ plinked  _ off the gore-soaked floor. Oro raised his bloody nail high above his head in victory, and the crowd in unison roared again. In his peripheral he watched the gates open; in the darkness of the long corridor the eyes of the Announcer glinted, and Oro could just make out the movement as the bug clapped politely. 

Oro turned and lumbered out through the open gate. A creeping, unnatural exhaustion cloaked itself around his shoulders along with a deep-seated feeling of dread. His breathing was heavy. His hands shook. As he rested his nail back on his shoulders, it felt like the weight of the world rested with it. The snap of a broken mask echoed itself in the back of his head.

Above him, the King Fool’s eye  _ glowed _ .

Oro wondered where Mato was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the Announcer's advice wasn't _bad_ at least, so that's good!
> 
> Oof oof oof I'm sleepy. I have absolutely no idea why I'm this sleepy.   
//shrugs into the sun//


	5. Insufferable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the brothers attempt a civil conversation and succeed?

Oro had never wanted to be alone so much in his life. Pity, then, that he was stuck waiting in a pit beneath the Colosseum of Fools with dozens of other bugs. 

Many of them slept or nursed their wounds in between fights. A few, like him, meandered over to the hot spring to soak their aching limbs and get a faster, more meaningful rest than one the cold floor or a bench might offer. Others waited impatiently for their own rounds to start. Others still left and never came back - either killed by the first round of challenges or intimidated into safer passions elsewhere.

It had taken ages for Oro to polish all the blood off his nail. Ages more to clean it until the invisible grit the mask left behind finally stopped gleaming on its surface. Ages _still _to convince himself he was fine, and he could stop cleaning the nail obsessively, and remind himself that masks didn’t leave residue worth cleaning anyway. But even still his shell itched and crawled with the sensation of filth, and his stomach refused to still, and he inspected his nail for any microscopic crevice some evidence of the mask could have embedded itself. He thought he’d gotten past this. He’d been wrong, apparently.

When Oro had finished forcing himself to clean his nail and tend to his aches and pains, he meandered around the Colosseum looking for Mato. Not because he was worried about him, mind. Of _course _he wasn’t worried about him. Mato was more than capable of taking care of himself. He was a _fantastic _warrior, more skilled than Oro had ever been. So skilled, in fact, that he was _still _wielding a nail! Miracle of miracles. Some god or wyrm must be keeping a pale watch over him.

_This is ridiculous. _

_Of course _Mato would still be wielding a nail, no gods or wyrms about it! He loved his craft. Loved the challenge, the repetition, the _feel _of steel dancing. Wasn’t it Mato who, of the three of them, had first asked the Nail Sage to take them on as pupils? Wasn’t it Mato who, whenever they all seemed to be getting discouraged, would rave on and _on _about how far they’d come? Sure Sheo had outshone the both of them, but _Mato_ was radiant in ways that far outstripped simple prowess. _Of course_ he was still wielding a nail. Mato would probably carry a nail with him straight into the _grave_. 

Oro brushed that final thought away abruptly.

After wandering aimlessly for the better part of the afternoon and wasting his time away, Oro _finally _found Mato - not in the Colosseum at all, which went far in explaining why he’d had such a hard time finding him in the first place. Oro had decided to widen his search a bit outside the Colosseum grounds to the Edge beyond, grumbling under his breath at the inconvenience as he went. He was stopped short when he came upon the corpses of several hoppers, all slashed apart in the familiar wide-sweeping arcs of a great nail. He followed the trail through the winding tunnel, down a few short falls, and found himself standing at a cliff’s edge looking out towards the canyon beyond. Sitting on the very edge of the precipice was Mato. 

He cut an intimidating silhouette there, honestly. His great shadow stretched wide in Oro’s direction until it seemed to coat the walls of the tunnel with its darkness, the edges of his form highlighted in the pale yellow-white light of the ashen reaches of the kingdom. The soft breeze tugged at the fur lining of his cape, making his long shadow twitch and crawl up the tunnel walls. His great nail glinted clean and sharp and well-tended across his lap. 

Oro hesitated in the shadows, sizing up his brother from a distance. He _looked _okay, Oro decided, and his worries put at ease - _He’d been worrying? How absurd. Surely he wasn’t! _\- he turned to leave back the way he’d come.

“I thought I’d sensed the aura of a fierce warrior approaching,” Mato spoke suddenly, his voice harsh and ringing against the silent whistling of the cavern, “You’re welcome to join me Oro.”

He cast a glance over his shoulder, “Or not, I guess. I know you like your solitude.”

Oro paused for a long moment, trying to muster a reason for leaving with more substance than _‘Talking to you is a chore’_ and coming up short. He _did _like his solitude. And really, he hadn’t come out here to _talk _to his brother, just make sure he hadn’t magically gotten himself killed in the Colosseum. But there was a morose sort of distance in Mato’s voice that made Oro feel a bit… _guilty… _just leaving him to his own devices like this. With a silent curse and a furtive glance up to the heavens, Oro ambled over to join his brother. He sat heavily by his side, mirroring the meditative pose Mato was already in.

“So what, you can sense auras now?” Oro grumbled.

“No. I heard you coming,” Mato chuckled and grinned mischievously, “Sounded pretty cool though, didn’t it?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Suffer then,” Mato jabbed pleasantly, casting his gaze back towards the canyon, “It’s beautiful here. I can see why you like it so much.”

“_Tch_, sure, _beautiful_,” Oro harrumphed, “If you like sweeping dust off your clothes every day and dodging aspids every time you go for a stroll.”

“Better than the Howling Cliffs,” Mato hummed, “It speaks to the misery of a place, I think, if even the stones scream.”

“Well there must have been _some _allure, if you settled there to begin with.”

Something in Mato’s shoulders stiffened, an imperceptible motion that any other bug probably wouldn’t have noticed. A motion Oro only sensed because he was keenly aware he’d done it himself. He knew the allure for Mato settling so far away at the top of the world. It was the absolute farthest he could possibly be from Oro - the farthest at least, without leaving the kingdom entirely. Their falling out had been… _rough… _to say the least. 

Had they really held so much hate for each other once? 

Yes. Yes they had. 

Oro clearly remembered a time when just the _thought _of his brother’s name filled him with so much emotion it nearly drove him blind. Days, weeks, months of slashing at targets and snarling at his own thoughts and meditating on his ire. And once again Oro found himself wondering what had happened to it all. He knew _himself_; he knew _his own_ reconciliation. But… he knew nothing of Mato’s. There had been no word, no explanation. It had been absolute silence, a clean and complete break from all communication until just now when Mato had, basically, just _appeared _at his doorstep. 

Not that Oro himself had ever tried to instigate his own communication with his estranged brother. The sound of Mato’s voice the last time they’d seen each other, the look on his face, the words he’d said… they were more than enough to keep Oro away and wary even after the nail of his own thoughts had long blunted itself against the edges of his sense of reason. Had time really dulled Mato’s fury as well, or was this all just some sort of elaborate pretense? Some play at false pleasantries while they were forced to be in each other’s company.

_Or perhaps_, a more sinister thought wormed its way through him, _this was the beginning of some revenge he was just too simple to see right now_. 

Oro pushed the thought to a far corner of his mind to chew on later.

“Do you ever think about when we were training together?” Mato asked, his voice shattering Oro out of the depths of his thoughts, “At the beginning, before we were named Nailmasters?”

Cautiously Oro answered, "Sometimes."

"No wonder they called Sly a Sage," Mato chuckled, "You would have to be, to have the patience to deal with all three of us at once."

Oro blinked down into the canyon.

Mato chuckled, "Do you remember when Sly fell asleep meditating? And we-"

"Pilfered through his entire charm collection," Oro finished for him, the memory rushing back to him at the mention, "You grabbed the Sprintmaster charm-"

"Oh Wyrm, I barely knew how to hold the damn thing-"

"- and went sprinting so fast you didn't know how to stop."

Mato snorted a heartier laugh, "I ran so hard off the rocks at Blue Lake I ended up past my head in water."

"Sheo had to swim out and get you before you could drown yourself," Oro found himself laughing now, a soft rumble of a noise that shook his shoulders, "And you were kicking so fast with that stupid charm on both of you almost _flew _back to shore."

The two of them laughed fondly, and then lapsed into companionable silence for a moment.

"Sly made us do extra sets for a week," Mato smiled warmly, "I think he was more impressed with how stupid we were, than angry."

"Oh probably," Oro chuckled, "He never could stay mad at us long.”

Mato hesitated for a moment, and then said in a voice that was much more subdued, “_You _stayed angry though.”

For a moment, Oro felt as though everything down to the center of his core turned to stone. There was a tenseness in his guts that kept them _just _on the edge of writhing, like any moment some emotion would snap inside of him like a weaver’s cord pulled too tight. Unseen beneath his pooling cape, his hands tensed into fists, and his gaze sharpened on the fluttering forms of booflies far, _far _below them. Paranoia crept up on him again, that all this pleasantry was just the calm surface to a lifetime of feuding between the two brothers. That Mato might possibly be here for some reason other than simply the Colosseum. 

Oro blinked, and exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and as he did, he forced the tenseness in his shoulders and in his clenched fists to relax themselves.

“That doesn’t mean much,” he said simply, making a mighty effort to keep his voice neutral, “I was always angry about something back then.”

“Maybe,” Mato hummed, and Oro noticed some of his previous enthusiasm was already creeping back into his voice, “But we still had fun. As much as we could anyway, working with the Nail Sage.”

His voice turned thoughtful again, “Do you ever wonder if he’s proud of us?”

Oro scowled. 

_There was nothing about him to be proud of._

Sheo had accomplished enough with his time to earn the Nail Sage’s praise. He’d always had a good head on his shoulders, the hungry desire to learn and master everything he tried buried beneath his aloof countenance. He held in him not only the ability to learn but the ability to _create _as well. Wasn’t it Sheo who’d said, last time they’d spoken, he was going to create something new? Golden child, he’d been _made _for this craft even more than Mato had been. The Nail Sage would be proud of _Sheo_. He would be proud of Mato doubtlessly, after all the things he’d learned and adapted to, his dedication to his craft. But Oro -

Oro got to his feet and said abruptly, “I think it’s best not to wonder.”

Mato glanced up at him, and then cast his gaze back out to the canyon as he hummed, “You’re probably right.”

Then he asked, “Are you going home?”

“Well I’m not sleeping on the floor of some Wyrm-cursed Colosseum,” Oro groused, “And you?”

“It’s a _long _trip back to the Howling Cliffs,” Mato said, “And my next match starts early.”

“Suit yourself then,” Oro said, retreating back down the tunnel from where he came, “If you’re still alive by the time I get back, I’ll bring you breakfast.”

Oro received no reply, and he chose to read this as simply Mato sinking back into contemplation and nothing more. It would do him no good to worry about whatever his brother must be thinking. All it would do was make him paranoid and bitter, two things he had spent years of his life trying to banish from his mind. Alone, Oro made the long walk down to his home at the bottom of the canyon. He spiked his nail into the ground outside his door, a warning to anyone else who might try and keep him company that he wasn't to be trifled with.

He furiously hoped Mato got a horrid night's sleep on the Colosseum floor, and then wondered why it was always _Mato _who seemed to bring out the worst in him, no matter how much time passed.

Some things never changed, he supposed. No matter how hard he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oro dude you've got some repressed feelings you need to like, deal with, I think.
> 
> Also! Apologies there was a shortly longer wait on this than the other chapters. I kept forgetting?? To post it?? Whoops.


	6. Attrition II

_ Crick. Crack. _

_ A sound like crunching bones and breaking glass.  _

_ The feel of hands clenched around his wrist, the wrenching of their shaking grasp. Strong hands, far stronger than his. But that didn’t matter when he held a nail. _

_ A blinding fury like he’d never felt before in his life, and the rush of pure unfiltered  _ ** _joy _ ** _ of finally acting on it, like a river ripping apart the dam that held it back. There was glory in just the feeling, catharsis in the sound, in the feel of the resistance between his hands and his nail, a  _ ** _blinding _ ** _ radiance. A roaring of blood and adrenaline through his senses that nearly seemed to tinge his vision in  _ ** _gold _ ** _ \- and then the shock as the roar turned to words. And the words into realization. _

_ Suddenly he could see again _

_ and he w a s  _

_ h or r i f i e d  _

_ b y w h a t h e s a w _

_ _ ** _ \- - -- ---- ---- C - c r i c k ---------- --- -- -_ **

  
  


** _ \- -- ------ - -- - Crack - - ------ ---- - - - - ----- -_ **

  
  


_ A sound like  _ ** _ cr u n c h i n g _ ** _ b o n e s  _

_ A n d  _ ** _b r e a k i n g_ ** _ g l a s s _

  
  


_ A n d a  _ ** _v o i c e _ **

_ _ ** _ S c r e a m i n g_ **

** _D o _ **

** _ y o u _ **

** _ r e a ll y _ **

** _\- - - -- - h a t e m e - -- - -_ **

** _ t h a t _ **

** _ m u c h?_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might be a weird read on phones / small screens / mobile browsers so,  
sorry  
about that


	7. A Number of Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is mostly talking and some arguing.

Oro awoke with a terrible taste in his mouth and the exhausted feeling of suffering dreams just before waking instead of the flat black sleep he so desired. Oh. _Wyrm_. What a terrible way to start a morning. And he had a long day ahead of him too.

He washed his face, donned his cloak and armor, and with tired sourness began once again to climb up the canyon towards the Colosseum of Fools. And what a fool he _must be_ for returning for the second day. His next match was in the afternoon he knew, which meant a good deal of waiting around for every other bug in the building to get themselves killed. Rumor had it yesterday that they should be moving on to one-on-one matches today, so today proved at least to be more interesting than the last. Though surveying his competition once in the Colosseum pit, Oro was less than impressed. There were a few scary looking bugs here sure, but none who truly intimidated him.

When he arrived at the Colosseum, Mato was nowhere in sight. He must be having his match then. Hm. Could he _watch _Mato’s fight? That was an option wasn’t it? 

Well… it would pass the time for sure. But it would also serve to make Oro competitive, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that quite so early in the morning. Instead he resolved to nap quietly with his feet in the hot springs until his name was called, and occasionally steal glances around the room at his competition.

He might not be able to _see _Mato's fight from here, but surely, he _heard _it. It was hard _not to_, with how loudly the crowd above was cheering. There were rumbling building roars like surf crashing against a dissonant sea. Oro could tell when a hit was landed because suddenly the cheers would _boom_ is a cacophonous surge that nearly shook the ceiling, and then they would abate to a low rumble for several seconds while they awaited the next feat. Oro found himself counting the seconds between waves of cheers, measuring the thunder to find the closeness of the victorious storm. 

Mato would win of course. He _had_ to win. Oro couldn't imagine a world where Mato could possibly lose. _Especially _in the Colosseum of Fools of all places. There wasn't a match for Mato in this room, he was sure, save for possibly Oro himself. And even then, it had been _years _since the two brothers had last crossed blades. For all Oro knew Mato had somehow gathered enough skill to rival the Nail Sage himself. It was unlikely. Out of all the brothers Sheo was the only one that had really shown such promise. But the thought persisted.

There was a final roaring cheer, this time thundering with a chorus of drums and a blasting of horns. Someone had won the match. Oro tried not to look conspicuous as he stole furtive glances towards the exit to the Colosseum pit, waiting on the victor to drop down inside and saunter over for a rest. He waited, and his shell itched with the anxiety of it until at last Mato dropped into view. His nail was bloodied and there was a gruesome spatter matting the fur by his shoulder. But a quick study of the ease of his movements showed he was in no pain - the blood was someone else’s. So Mato had won without injury then. 

That brought Oro more relief than he figured it would.

Mato smiled warmly and lumbered over to join him at the hot springs, letting out a long sigh as he too dipped his feet in the water. He sat his nail in his lap and began to clean it, meticulous in his work. A warrior was only as good as his nail, after all.

“You lived then,” Oro said.

“Don’t act so disappointed,” Mato chuckled, his tone grimly pleasant, “It was a good match though, and a very worthy opponent. He fought honorably.”

Oro could’ve rolled his eyes. Mato’s idealism. Somehow he always forgot how much it got on his nerves.

“Did you sense a _strong aura_ from him too then?” Oro asked sarcastically.

Mato smirked, “I told you I was kidding about that.”

“Yeah sure.”

“I _promise _I haven’t managed to get some mystical unheard of magical powers in the last ten years,” Mato reassured him, his tone turning sour, “All this time alone and you still don’t know how to take a joke, do you?”

Oro bristled and huffed an angry breath, his mind scrambling for some sort of biting comeback. He stopped short, however, when he noticed Mato had stopped cleaning his nail. 

It was a simple, benign thing. Mato could have been pausing to think, or to listen with whatever dry humor he had to whatever Oro might say. But though the rag he held still rested against the surface, his grip on the hilt of his nail had reversed itself. It would be much easier now to, say, suddenly point the tip of it in Oro’s direction, if he had to. And at that thought, Oro remembered they were in a confined space, paces apart from each other, with little room to maneuver. It would be really hard to do something like standing and dodging, and very easy to do something like lunge across the space between them.

Not that Oro ever thought his brother would attack him. No, that wasn’t in Mato’s character, and that wasn’t the thought that crawled its way through his mind. The idea that dug it’s paranoid mandibles into Oro’s thoughts, so stark and sinister against the overall nonchalance of the situation, was whether or not _Mato _was scared of _him_ doing something like that.

“Your match is this afternoon, isn't it? I wish you luck,” Mato said coolly, his voice an intense sort of pleasantness, fake almost, if Oro decided to read it that way, “I’d tell you not to kill anyone but… well… that’s unavoidable here, it looks like. The crowd’s a little too bloodthirsty.”

Oro blinked up at his brother, dumb for a reply. He was pinwheeling through the hole that had opened up in his thoughts and he didn’t know how to stop his own free-fall. It wasn’t until Mato had taken several steps away from him that he managed to finally slam into a thought.

“I was supposed to bring you something for breakfast,” he offered clumsily.

Mato paused in his retreat, and for a moment flashed Oro a truly genuine smile, “Don’t worry about it Oro. The city storerooms shouldn’t be too far from here. I’m sure I can find something-”

“Ah! I see I’ve caught the two Nailmasters together,” a sudden voice snatched up the brothers’ attention before Mato could manage to amble off, and the two of them found themselves suddenly in the presence of a newcomer, “Wow, it really _is _impossible to tell you two apart isn’t it?”

In an exhausting whiplash of emotions, Oro found his insides twisting defensively at the comment, worming a scowl back to his face as he fixed his gaze on the diminutive bug that had approached them. He was smaller even than most husks Oro had seen, sporting a pair of antennae that seemed shorter than they should be, as though they’d been cut at some point. The aftermath of a battle lost, perhaps. 

Mato chuckled, sounding a bit tense at the comparison as well - though noticeably less hostile than his brother, “We’re only alike on a passing glance, I assure you,” he corrected gently, _far more _gently than Oro ever would have, “I am Mato, and this quarrelsome oaf beside me is Oro.”

Oro redirected his glare back to his brother, intent to bore holes into the idiot’s shell if he were able. Mato returned the glare with a stifled _snrk! _of laughter and a grin.

“Ah! Nailmaster Oro, then,” the bug extended a hand in Oro’s direction, wholly oblivious to the combative aura that was nearly palpable around the embittered bug, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance!”

Oro shot his brother a final scowl before taking the offered hand and giving it a shake, “And you are?”

“Oh my name is of no importance,” the bug said cheerily, which struck Oro as odd. Most of the bugs around here were a bit more… grim, “I am just another Fool for the Colosseum! But what _is _important is that I meet you now. I like to put a name and face to the characters I’m battling.”

Finally, a creeping of common sense and caution writhed its way up the back of Oro’s shell. He scrutinized the bug for a moment before finally saying, “Are you my next opponent then?”

“I am!” the bug said pridefully, “And I’m glad at the chance to finally prove my worth to the King Fool once again! It’s been quite a while since I last entered the arena.”

“So you’ve fought in the Colosseum before?” Mato spoke up, leaning in just slightly, clearly intrigued.

“Indeed I have!” Little Fool said proudly.

“Well, Fool Champion, sit with us for a moment,” Mato said warmly, ushering to the mostly empty hot springs - though with the three of them together now, the small space was becoming a bit too cramped for Oro’s tastes, “I’m always eager to hear others’ tales of glory, and I’m sure you’ve quite a few?”

“Ah… w… _well _I….” the Little Fool stammered nervously, not moving from where he stood, “Unfortunately I’ve not many tales to tell. I _have _fought in the Colosseum!” he reassured them quickly, his voice earnest, “But the last time I fought, I lost. So for uh… quite some time they’ve had me hanging around the entrance, you know, to make sure all the newcomers are inspired to win their battles!”

Oro flashed Mato a sideways glance, one his brother met imperceptibly.

“I was under the impression,” Mato hummed, “That everyone who lost their battles here were killed?”

“Oh! Well, for Championships such as this, yes,” the Little Fool said, nodding emphatically, “It’s a bit higher stakes - you have to be willing to give everything if you want to be the Champion of the Colosseum! It’s a high honor, and one that is won with might and valor, you know. But during the normal battles, defeat can be a bit more forgiving if you’re uh… I suppose, cowardly enough.”

The Little Fool tugged nervously at one of his antennae, “I must admit my last battle here I was quite afraid. But! I’ve since learned otherwise. Inspired by the many great and powerful bugs to come through the Colosseum gates! And so many astounding victors! I will be happy to count myself among them! Ah - no offense.”

The Little Fool flashed Oro a pathetically nervous smile.

Oro scowled at him, “Well, from the sounds of it you haven’t _completely _lost your senses.”

“Huh? Well I-”

“Withdraw.”

The Little Fool blinked up at him, shocked, “W… what?”

“You’ve lost here once already, to what? The beasts, the little flying, crawling things? To a handful of simple warrior bugs?” Oro asked abruptly, not really expecting an answer, “Have you ever fought anyone with any sort of honed skill with a nail?”

“W-well I-”

“What makes you think you can stand a chance against me?” Oro interrupted, his whole body a tense scowl, from the hunch of his shoulders to the clench of his hands, “Honestly.”

“Oro,” Mato said, his voice low, “Don’t be cruel.”

“_Cruel _is dying for hollow things,” Oro snapped, his glare training itself on his brother, “Stupid, ephemeral ideas like valor, honor, and bravery. You might as well be fighting over dust. A pity, then, if I’m going to kill someone chasing after a fantasy. _Withdraw_, or find something worth dying for. You said so yourself, mercy is a concept for lesser trials.”

There was, for a moment, a damning sort of silence where Oro’s words could hang in the air and carry their own weight. A weight that seemed to hang _heavy _on the Litttle Fool, whose shoulders drooped, and gaze bored itself into the chitin-made floor.

“Strong words,” Mato said icily, “From someone still trying to prove himself worthy of a title he won ages ago. Unless you’d like to keep pretending you’re _actually _here to practice your nail craft?”

Oro found himself completely blindsided by how _angry _the comment made him. And he couldn’t even rightly define _why_. Perhaps he was angry simply because of how _right _Mato was; how, perceptive as always, he had managed to pick through Oro’s prickled facade to the old, enduring grudge beneath. Though Oro figured he hadn’t tried too hard to hide it in the first place.

“Your match is this afternoon, isn't it?” Mato redirected his attention to the Little Fool, who now sat looking down at his feet miserably, the previous height of his spirit dashed across the floor, “I wish you luck, truly.”

“Th-thank you,” the Little Fool stammered belatedly, recovering a smidge of his earlier bravado, “B… but… shouldn’t you be wishing your luck on your brother?”

Mato smiled coolly, his voice veiled with an intense sort of pleasantness, “Oro wouldn’t take my well-wishes anyway. He’s kind of chitin-brained like that.”

Oro didn’t know what infuriated him more, the insult, or the way Mato talked as if he wasn’t even there. All he knew were his hands were clenched into such tight fists that they ached, and he was dumb for a suitable comeback.

Feigning a mighty nonchalance, Mato stood and stretched, “I think I’ll be taking my leave of this place for now. My match is over, and it’s all getting a little too bloodthirsty for my tastes.” When Mato cast his smile again in Oro’s direction, it was unreadable. Oro found himself unable to tell if it was truly genuine or not, “Come and join me after your match if you’d like. I’ve got nowhere far to go.”

Mato left.

And Oro _seethed_.

“W-well! That was a bit intense,” the Little Fool stuttered, cringing a few steps away from Oro as though he were a hive of spitting aspids, “A-anyway. See you in the ring, I-I guess?”

They scurried away quickly, scared of further confrontation, and Oro let them go. He was still _angry_, and Mato’s words to him buzzed in the back of his mind like a dozen angry hiveling wings. Nothing changed. Nothing _ever _changed. Mato was still just as idealistic and _stupid _as ever. Encouraging such a simple little bug! But of course Mato would have no problem breaking their shell if it was for the valor of it. What was the point in enabling _corpses? _No, nothing had changed. Mato was still full of chitin-brained dreams not suitable for nailwork and Oro was-! Oro was…

Oro was still angry.

** _ \---- ---- C - c r i c k -- - ----_ **

But he wasn’t _that _angry. He was fine. Everything was _fine_. It was just a stupid spat - Mato getting under his shell. Self control. That’s what he needed. That’s what he’d been practicing for ages, out here on his own, wasn’t it? That and his nail craft. He was a Nailmaster after all. 

Oro narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, where above him the crowd roared.

And he knew just the right way to show it off, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, it's been awhile.  
I'm gonna be honest, I wasn't planning on finishing this? But after several months of separation from it I went back to reread the chapters and figured out how to kind of fiddle with the plot in the way I hadn't been able to figure out previously. :'D  
Still no idea if this will get finished or not but,,, hey might as well kick it around and see what happens!


End file.
